Hello romanticists,
On Tuesday we will be discussing Romantic treatments of psychic pain. Or rather, we will be continuing our discussion with special focus, as of course we have been examining loss, betrayal, abuse, and loneliness across an array of poems up to now. For Tuesday, give special attention to the ways in which each poet describes or defines her/his pain and consider how poetic form shapes these expressions. You are already familiar with sonnet form (which Smith and Robinson employ). Wordsworth and Coleridge by contrast use the ode, a Classical genre originally used as a mode of praise and performed publicly.
The Robinson poem, not included in our anthology,is below. As always, post by Monday noon.
Happy reading, Prof. M
The Snow Drop
Thou meekest emblem of the infant year,
Why droops so cold and wan thy fragrant head?
Ah! why retiring to thy frozen bed,
Steals from thy silky leaves the trembling tear?
Day's op'ning eye shall warm thy gentle breast,
Revive thy timid charms and sickly hue;
Thy drooping buds shall drink the morning dew,
And bloom again by glowing Phoebus drest;
Or should the midnight damp, with icy breath,
Nip thy pale check, and bow thee to the ground,
Or the bleak winds thy blossoms scatter round,
And all thy modest beauties fade to death;
E'en in decay thy spotless sweets shall rise,
And midst Aurora's tears evap'rate in the skies.
"Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!" - Like a defibrillator, the sounds of nature's "might" rouse Coleridge/the speaker; they are potentially life-giving. Yet, at once, they are also the expressions of pain and isolation. Nature, the world, both "raises" and "awes," generating and representing intense emotions at every point of the spectrum. The night is "so tranquil" and gentle, "clouds in lazy flakes," but, then, the wind is a "dull sobbing," mournful and painful; it creates most beautiful music, yet the speaker insists it is "better far were mute." Basically, boy, is the speaker torn up. He lives with "dull pain" - that "dull"-ness clearly a theme here - and he is desperate to combat it, but has not idea how to even go about making it happen. "I may not hope from outward forms to win/The passion and the life, whose fountains are within!" - but, inwardly, he is dying, drowning. He lives with a "smoth'ring weight" on his "breast," so intense, horrible and never-ending that the "grief" no longer even has a "pang." It is just an endless abyss, a "void" and a "darkness" to which he sees there is no end. And so, he acts like he doesn't want relief or reprieve in his "outward forms," while he is dying inside. He tries to kill his longing for joy and happiness, those desires that make one "natural man," and give himself a new nature, one where he does not expect to be happy. That's all he could think to do in order to survive. He allows nature to be the representation of his "reality's dark dream," of his grief, his "viper thoughts." The hollowing winds are the screams of anguish he cannot raise voice, too. Then again, they are also his savior, as they express that which he is unable to; that in itself is some sort of delivery.
ReplyDeleteThis Ode is incredibly powerful, just keeps bowling me over in waves. Really in awe of it.
And then I think how this was a wedding-day gift and, good God, man, what is WRONG with you! Dang, Coleridge's life sucked.
It seems weird at first that an ode would be used to portray melancholy, as they are generally mediums of praise, especially for the more “uplifting” emotions (ex: Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”), but then again, melancholy, solitude, and the like are not necessarily bad emotions or states of being (which I think he knew well, as he alludes to Milton, and would probably have been familiar with “Il Penseroso” as well).
ReplyDeleteBut, in all due respect… in reading Coleridge’s Ode, I don’t feel very dejected. The words themselves might be saddening, but the way the read aloud, the musicality of it, doesn’t fit that tone, at least to me (or maybe I just like sad poems; I seem to like sad instrumental music, and this has the same feeling to it, so who knows). That might be the whole point-- even though he’s constantly complaining that he has no inspiration or creative flow, and that he has to actively search for it, he does end up finding the metaphors and poetic means that he seeks, and he uses them, and he is able to express himself to a certain extent. In fact, he expresses himself through the very things that vex him so (the variations of the sky, which he claims not to gain inspiration from).
This is Coleridge playing up pathetic fallacy to the finest. He’s taking what most people might describe in an ode, and attempts to turn it on its head using their same methods. I just don’t think he quite achieves that goal, of showing that being numb and uncaring and unopen to inspiration in nature is going to stop him from writing poetry, because he obviously writes a fantastic poem including all of those aspects. In that way, it’s one of the more hopeful pieces I’ve read by him.
Oh, you Romantics, stop your whining already!!! You're depressed? Join the queue! All of you, get over yourselves! I'm glad they are all dead. Listen, they are happier this way.
ReplyDeleteI'm going to have to write about Wordsworth now, because his "Intimations of Immortality" was the only poem I tolerated. He is the only one who wrote about something. Smith and Coleridge write about how "darker now grows life's unhappy day" (Sonnet XXXVI) and "afflictions bow me down to earth" respectively. Except they take a long time to say it, with many cliches thrown in for fun. Wordsworth, at least, has a topic: When he was a kid, his soul was more connected to life and G-d, but now his life is "endless imitation" and he regrets his knowledge of his own mortality while mourning his lost youth. To all three of the poets, nature inspires both feelings of hope and depression. Wordsworth is the only one who explains the reasons for his joy or sorrow. I think the point of his poem is very clear. First he blabs about how beautiful and full of potential children are, how the world is so beautiful, he loves nature, and blah blah. Nice imagery. Then, his first main point: "Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?"
Children have the great gift of belief in their own immortality and thus the ability to accomplish so much. Tragically, they want to grow up quickly and lost their innocence and their close connection to nature and G-d.
Second point: "Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind."
Ok, Wordsworth is showing he will not give in to the depressing belief which opposes belief in immortality--obsession with death and the blindness to beauty in the world. Clearly, he can see beauty in the world, as he displays in his poem with his descriptions of nature, and furthermore can appreciate what children have because of his life experience.
Finally, Wordsworth emphasizes the important connection between people and nature which he's been talking about the whole time: "Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
Nature helps people relate to their own emotions. When Wordsworth realizes that although he is not as completely connected to nature as he had been as a child, he is grateful that he is still conscious such a deep connection exists, and therefore he is still able to connect to his emotions through nature.
Why can't Smith and Coleridge be specific like Wordsworth? So they worry about death and they think life is sad. But WHY? Wordsworth explains and they don't. They are so whiny and annoying.
There is a bit of melancholy in all Romantic poetry: In turning inward, in continual reflection, there is an importance granted to the emotions and voices inside of your own head, and it can dark and lonely there. Some (see above) say that by propping up the melancholy, Smith, Coleridge and Wordsworth are self-indulgent and solipsistic. That may be true. But, regardless in how earnestly one conveys one's own emotion, melancholy is not a romantic thing. It's a human thing. What's specific to the Romantics is the highly distinct, effective way they respectfully captured melancholy.
ReplyDeleteCharlotte Smith goes about exploring melancholy in the most typical, self-indulgent way. In Sonnet XXXV and XXXVI. She externalizes and personifies Happiness, and Poesy, Care, Fancy and Hope... it feels somewhat contrived and forced, yet Smith recognizes that it's a vain endeavor...
I'm pretty sure that a poet who earnestly wrote about melancholy today, they would be skewered. We have a cynical society, where there's a clearly a noticeable push back against romanticizing sadness, mental illness... melancholy isn't a word that's used today. This is why I was puzzled (and I've mentioned this before) I'm weirdly not annoyed by the pretentiousness... Ultimately, what I've said, is that it's because it's done so well. But if I may, I'd like to bring up the critical reception of the recent film Cinderella - hailed and praised as a true fairy tale in the post-modern 'Frozen' era. Sometimes earnestness, conventionality is just the way to go.